


Tea and Books

by popyourwhitecollarsup



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Fluff, M/M, One-Shot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-23
Updated: 2012-01-23
Packaged: 2017-10-29 23:51:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,584
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/325502
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/popyourwhitecollarsup/pseuds/popyourwhitecollarsup
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock tries to be spontaneous. For Lauren :)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Tea and Books

**Author's Note:**

> AN: In this, Sherlock and John have been an item for a few weeks now.

Sherlock was at the window with a playing dart in his hand when John returned to Baker Street from his day working at the hospital. As he reached the top of the stairs and turned into the hallway, the dart shot past him and stuck in the door frame at John’s eye level, inches away from his head.

John froze in fear for a moment before his eyes met Sherlock’s, and his expression turned from confusion to sweet exasperation.

“Sorry. Couldn’t resist.” said Sherlock, the audacious smirk on his face lighting up his eyes. John thought about asking _why_ he’d just had a dart thrown dangerously close to his head, but instead he sighed and slumped down on his arm chair, tired from the day’s work. Sherlock, still in his dressing gown from this morning, began to pour the tea.

“Aren’t you going to ask how my day was?” asked John, watching as Sherlock sat down gently and reach for his steaming cup and saucer.

“I don’t see any point in that. The day is almost over.” he replied, not looking up whilst he took a sip of his tea. John ignored this comment and tried again.

“No new cases today?” Although he already knew the answer, if there had been a new case not only would Sherlock be _dressed_ , but he would have been dragged out of the hospital mid-surgery to help him solve it.

Not that he ever needed any help, of course.

“Not of any interest, no.” He sat his cup down on his saucer and perched it on his knee, which remained still. “Mrs. Hudson asked me to pass on the message that there is still some shepherd’s pie in the fridge for you, if you were perhaps hungry.” His pale eyes met John’s with a flicker of concern, but John just shook his head and drained the rest of his tea.

“No, I think I’ll go straight to bed. It’s been a long day.” He stood up and stretched. Sherlock, looking slightly hurt, stood up a moment after.

“Sleep? But it’s only half past nine!” he said, slightly indignant.  
“Yeah, well, some of us haven’t been in our dressing gowns all day.” John said, pointedly gesturing towards Sherlock’s robe which was slipping off of his shoulder. His exhaustion was making him sensitive, and he rubbed his eyes with his forefinger and thumb in an attempt to relax himself. “Are you coming, or not?” he said finally.

Sherlock tipped his head and raised an eyebrow slightly, before sighing deeply and giving in.

“Yes, I will.” He stood up, switched off the small lamp next to him and began to follow John through the flat.

Only after a few steps he stopped, as if he’d remembered something he was meant to do, and stared at John until he turned around.

Sherlock was standing there, in the dark, face bathed in a gentle glow which illuminated his cheekbones, his pillowly lips and his bright blue eyes, focused on nothing but John’s, and John’s heart skipped a beat, and as he walked towards Sherlock, he wanted nothing more than to touch his alabaster skin and fall into his arms, and for a moment Sherlock searched his eyes with such _admiration,_ such _amazement_ , and he parted those soft lips and John closed his eyes and pushed onto his toes and-

“Seventeen hours, thirty-two minutes, and-” he looked up into the still air and squinted in concentration- “twelve seconds.”

John rolled his eyes and looked up in impatience.

“Until what, Sherlock?”

“Not until. Since.”

“Since what then?”

“Since our last kiss.” Sherlock said quickly. John threw his hands up in the air and made a frustrated groan.

“Well what were we _just_ about to do?”

“We can still do it if you’d like” Sherlock replied meekly, drawing closer to John and taking his hand in his slowly. He bent his head down and closed his eyes, but John froze and exhaled deeply. He really was quite tired.

“No, Sherlock.” he turned away and shook his head.

“What on earth’s the matter, John? I thought you liked kissing me? I like kissing you-”

“Of course I like it!” snapped John, his cheeks flushing red. “But you can’t just interrupt… interrupt _moments_ like that with the stuff you come out with. This isn’t one of your _cases,_ Sherlock. You have to be spontaneous sometimes. Not everything can be explained with logic. Sometimes you just _do it_ , you understand? You don’t have to plan everything _all the time_. Try it sometime.”

John could just see a twinkle of disappointment in Sherlock’s eyes, and for a moment he felt guilty for blowing up. He clenched and unclenched his fists, but upon realising that Sherlock wasn’t going to say anything, he made an indiscernible noise and walked away.

~~

John stood over the bathroom sink in just his pyjama bottoms - which sadly were too long for him - concentrating harder than usual on cleaning his teeth. In the reflection of the mirror he saw Sherlock studying him carefully - also wearing the same pyjama bottoms, but they fitted him a lot better - until John straightened up, rested his toothbrush-holding hand on the side of the sink and started Sherlock out in the reflection.

Sherlock eventually gave up, flicking one of his many curls off his face and striding off towards the bedroom.

~~

Sherlock sat up in bed, propping his pillows up with his bare back, reading a book by his bedside lamp. He had stacks and stacks of books by his bed, spilling off the bedside table in columns on the floor almost level with his bed, his suit and dressing gown hung lazily on the open cupboard which no longer closed because of the sheer volume of _more_ books inside it.

John walked quickly into the room, climbed straight into bed, pulled the covers over him and switched out the light. Sherlock turned a page in his book, eyes unmoving.

~~

Sherlock awoke in the middle of the night, first to the sound of rain beating against the windows, and secondly to the faint light from the lamp behind him illuminating John’s face.

Sherlock craned his neck, eyes still sleepy and half-open to see his book, discarded somewhere near his knees, he must have fallen asleep whilst reading.

Keeping his eyes, on John, whose face was buried deeply into his pillow, he reached back and switched out the light as quietly as he could. He lay his hand back in front of him, facing John, and he felt the back of his hand against John’s warm chest, rising and falling with his soft breathing, and if he held still, _very_ still, he could feel John’s heart beating slowly against his hand.

Sherlock lay still, not looking at John, but _seeing_ him. He felt a swell in his chest, his head began to spin but as his eyes focused to the dark he saw his outline and all of Sherlock’s feelings finally came into focus.

He finally understood.

~~

The next morning, Sherlock sat at the dining table with tea and toast and jam in his robe, doing nothing else but waiting for John to stir from the bedroom. He was nervous.

 _ **Spontaneous** , adjective: Coming or resulting from a natural impulse or tendency; without effort or premeditation; natural and unconstrained; unplanned._

Did that still count if he had been _thinking_ about being spontaneous as he lay next to John last night?

And how could he possibly act without pre-meditation if he couldn’t stop _thinking_ about the swell in his chest that had stuck in him like an unfortunate balloon since last night?

His thoughts were inevitably interrupted by John, who appeared through the doorway fully dressed and still looking groggy. Sherlock stood as he entered, the chair scraping noisily against the floor which made John look up.

“I’m going down the shop” John informed him, but Sherlock made no move or no sign of speaking. “For butter.”

John waited for a few more moments before nodding absently and making his way down the stairs. Sherlock waited until he heard the front door click, before dashing down the stairs two at a time after him.

He burst out onto the cold, damp pavement and - ignoring the cold on his bare feet, the trail of his pyjamas and robe becoming damp - and paced after John.

It was a long minute before John realised there was a tall, handsome man in his bedclothes chasing him, the sound of bare feet slapping against the ground becoming more and more apparent.

“Sherlock!” John looked him up and down with surprise, his mouth twitching with a little bit of pride and admiration.

\-- _without effort or premeditation;--_

Sherlock stepped forward, clasped John’s face in his hands and kissed him, more fiercely than ever, feeling John’s hands slide up his ribs, the world becoming a distant blur as he slid his fingers around John’s neck, the firm muscle against his lips plunging his senses into John, all of him, his warmth and kindness and bravery and all of the things that should _never_ be taken for granted.

The bubble in his chest had burst, the sensation warming him from head to toe, and he found himself laughing against John’s mouth which then broke into a smile. Sherlock looked down at John for a moment, watching him stare at the floor and blush, but when he looked back up, Sherlock pulled him completely in his arms and kissed him again.

\-- _natural and unconstrained; unplanned._


End file.
